


Fancy pants

by ZeeCatfish



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Just pants, M/M, Pants, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeeCatfish/pseuds/ZeeCatfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you ask you this scenario is involving entirely too much pants and not nearly enough sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fancy pants

“I thought your brother w-was supposed to be the ass man,” you groan as you feel Dave’s stupidly warm human hands slide up your thighs to grope your ass again. Normally you wouldn’t particularly have a problem with this, except you are still wearing pants. Why are you still wearing pants?

“He is. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a nice pair of bulbous buttocks when I see them,” Dave comments dryly while kneading your ass admiringly. If there is one thing you have to give him credit for it’s that he’s damn good at making a guy feel good about his assets. “Besides-”

“Can’t you try a more fuckin’ sophisticated wocabulary you dick? If your ironic w-word womit kills my bone bulge I’m leawing you,” you interrupt, lovingly tangling your clawed fingers in his weirdly soft human hair. It’s so strange and alien and pretty and you would totally love a scarf made out of it, though that’s probably creepy and you might not want to tell him that. You foresee very few pails in your near future if that train of thought ever got out.

“ _Besides_ ,” he continues stubbornly, planting his forehead against yours and glaring you right in the eyes, looking kind of amusingly cute the way he has to blink all the time to keep his eyes from drying out or whatever. “I happen to be a connoisseur on fine asses because of his wise tutelage. And you’re wearing pants that are like only pants on a molecular level.”

“Pants that are only pants on a molecular lewel. W-what does that ewen mean?”

“It means it’s like you just walked by some poor, stripe-patterned troll a few sizes smaller than you and went like, ‘ey, prodigious, let’s kill the poor fucker and steal his skin to make myself some glubbin’ pants,’” he answers before letting go of your ass and sitting back, doing spectacularly little about the fact that you’re still wearing said pants. Which is a pretty damn major fucking issue if you ask you.

“You’re horrible at doin’ impressions a people, Dawe,” you inform him flatly while you reach out to fiddle with his fly. Somebody’s got to get this show on the road, and if it’s not going to be Dave then fine, you’ll do all the work. Again. You’re not sure why you were expecting him to actually understand and overcome the complexity of pants.

This is a lie. Dave has gotten you out of enough pairs of pants to know what he’s doing. 

He bats your hands away and leans in to kiss you again. You bite him. Kissing is fine and dandy, but there are more pressing issues at hand and he is neglecting them. In fact he is pinning your hands to the soft human foam sleeping plaque, meaning his hand are still doing things other than what they’re supposed to be doing.

“I lowe you,” you inform him absentmindedly as you wring your hands free and push his down towards your crotch, pleased when he seems to be getting back on track.

“Love you too babe,” he tells you as he tugs on the belt loops of your pants. “Now tell me how these things work, because the only way out I see involves a pair of scizors.”

You sit up and raise your eyebrows. “That’s w-what you’we been gettin’ at? You’we been conquered by my pants?”

He looks at you with his best deadpan face for a few seconds before cracking up. When he laughs , he always sounds kind of like Terezi, which basically comes down to sounding sort of like one of those earth human hyenas. 

You flop back down on the bed, grabbing one of the pillows beside you and dramatically flinging it at Dave’s head while pulling another one over your head to scream your sexually tinted frustrations into. Your pants suddenly don’t feel quite as tight anymore and you don’t even bother informing Dave that Happy Hour is now officially over as you roll off of the bed in search for your shirt.

From the way he’s still cackling, you don’t even think he minds all that much. 

_Humans._

**Author's Note:**

> I am a terrible person.


End file.
